It is quite wonderful what a fund of conversation one has with one's self, when one is left alone for a few minutes, after an hour or two of that excitement, during which the mind at one moment has enough to do in calculating what the body is to do the next. This conversation is sometimes pleasant of course, and sometimes severe, according to the circumstances of the case, and character of the person, or rather of the persons concerned. I hold the plural to be the right number in speaking of such conversation; for therein, more or less, the two spirits which Araspus, and every other man felt and feels in his own bosom, hold commune with each other; and--being two twin brothers, who, though good and evil in their several natures, have still a bond of kindred sympathy between them--although they wrangle and oppose each other in the busy strife of the world, yet, when they thus calmly meet in solitude and silence, to talk together over the past, there is a strain of melancholy affection mingles with their intercourse, which renders it always pleasing, though sometimes sad. The good spirit--for it is his moment of power--rebukes his evil brother gently for every abuse of his sway; and the evil one bows contrite, or playfully evades the charge. All this, however, has very little to do with Henry Burrel, (some persons may think,) who, in companionship with a hurt lad, half peasant half sailor, was slowly winding onward, in a creaking post-chaise, towards the small town of Emberton. Nevertheless, notwithstanding that fact--and whether any one understands some of the foregoing sentences or not, which probably they will not do without reading them over twice--Nevertheless, Henry Burrel's thoughts were suffered to flow, hardly interrupted--for the young sailor was still in a dozy, half lethargic state--and the two spirits, though the good one could scarcely be said to have lost its ascendency during the hours lately passed, had full leisure for conversation in his bosom. "I must take care what I am about," thought Burrel, as soon as he had fallen back in the chaise, after a few kindly words to his poor companion, which remained half unanswered; "I must take care what I am about," and it may hardly be necessary to inform the reader, that he was thinking of Blanche Delaware. "And yet," he continued the next moment, half smiling, "why should I take care?--whom have I to care for but myself?"